POET IN DA HOOD: Well, well, well...where to begin. In my last post I mentioned the drug dealer who had moved in next door. Things escalated over the weekend, with very little being resolved.
I had to call security twice to complain about the music and the absolute reek of pot drifting into my loft. On Friday night/Saturday morning, the guy was playing his music so loud it was vibrating the walls. I went and knocked on his door, but he wouldn't answer, so I went downstairs and a security guard accompanied me upstairs. The security guard knocked repeatedly, really pounding on the door, but the guy simply wasn't going to answer. Judging from the smell of weed, he was probably in a coma. I wound up sleeping on my couch because I couldn't sleep in my bedroom for the noise.
On Sunday morning between 12:30 and 1 a.m., the music was throbbing once again. This isn't the kind of sound you can just put earplugs in to stop. It's the heavy bass which vibrates through your entire body. So back downstairs I went to the guard shack and reported it to the security guard on duty. She came upstairs and knocked and the guy answered. She was basically no help. She told him that his marijuana could be smelled in the hall and he needed to be more respectful of the other tenants. He mumbled and shut the door. The music was eventually turned down, but the smell of marijuana did not dissipate.
I typed up an account of the weekend and took it to the manager on Monday morning, but he refused to see me. Isn't that strange? I called later in the day and he still wouldn't talk to me. I talked to some dumbass assistant manager who said they couldn't do anything about the smell of pot, it was just hearsay and I should call the police. I wouldn't have to call the fucking police if you hadn't let this shiftless muthafucker move in in the first place. As I said, anybody who can pay a deposit and first month's rent gets in.
Last night, I heard a piece of paper slipped under my door. It was a notice from the manager saying they had received complaints about noise from my loft. Apparently my dog barks incessantly when I'm not home. The rub? I don't have a dog, or any other kind of pet. I went down to the office today and they said it was a mistake, but what it revealed was that the promised "audit" of lofts to see who had pets never took place. This audit was planned for a few months ago after my friend Tina and her dog were attacked by a pitbull in the hallway. I decided to save a copy of the notice about my barking dog to give to her so if she sues them. Which she should. I found it interesting that I would get a complaint notice (which was marked as going in my resident file) after I made complaints over the weekend. Of course, the new apartment I'm moving to has already run its checks, so if someone at the office was trying to throw a wrench in that...sorry, you missed. It makes me wonder if drug dealer (who never leaves the loft) is a friend of management. Hmmm...
Besides the residential drama, I went to Kodac Harrison's new gig at the Oakhurst Grille. He did a great set of songs and had me come up and read some poems. The lovely Irish singer Kathleen Donohoe also sang a moving rendition of Galway Bay that actually had me a little verklempt. I do love Irish music. It strikes some chord in me that is unexplainable, something that must be part of my ancestry. It made me want to go back to Ireland for a visit.
I also went down to my parents' over the weekend and helped my dad do some yardwork. Anyone who knows me well knows that I don't do yardwork. As a matter of fact, I hadn't done any yardwork since I was a kid, so it was weird wielding a big pair of clippers trying to trim the hedges around my parents' front walk. My dad is pretty weak because of his illness, so he raked a little and supervised. I also did my best Joan ("Bring me the axe!") Crawford and chopped down a tree. Yeah, yeah...I'm butch.
I wound up missing Java Monkey again, which is so unlike me. I've missed so many Sundays at JM because of being out of town or having other commitments. I should be back for the slam this Sunday. Watched The L Word (brilliant) and last night watched Kirstie Alley's new show Fat Actress. Hysterical. I was laughing so hard at how crazy she is. Sure it's a one joke show, but it's a pretty damn funny joke.
I had to call security twice to complain about the music and the absolute reek of pot drifting into my loft. On Friday night/Saturday morning, the guy was playing his music so loud it was vibrating the walls. I went and knocked on his door, but he wouldn't answer, so I went downstairs and a security guard accompanied me upstairs. The security guard knocked repeatedly, really pounding on the door, but the guy simply wasn't going to answer. Judging from the smell of weed, he was probably in a coma. I wound up sleeping on my couch because I couldn't sleep in my bedroom for the noise.
On Sunday morning between 12:30 and 1 a.m., the music was throbbing once again. This isn't the kind of sound you can just put earplugs in to stop. It's the heavy bass which vibrates through your entire body. So back downstairs I went to the guard shack and reported it to the security guard on duty. She came upstairs and knocked and the guy answered. She was basically no help. She told him that his marijuana could be smelled in the hall and he needed to be more respectful of the other tenants. He mumbled and shut the door. The music was eventually turned down, but the smell of marijuana did not dissipate.
I typed up an account of the weekend and took it to the manager on Monday morning, but he refused to see me. Isn't that strange? I called later in the day and he still wouldn't talk to me. I talked to some dumbass assistant manager who said they couldn't do anything about the smell of pot, it was just hearsay and I should call the police. I wouldn't have to call the fucking police if you hadn't let this shiftless muthafucker move in in the first place. As I said, anybody who can pay a deposit and first month's rent gets in.
Last night, I heard a piece of paper slipped under my door. It was a notice from the manager saying they had received complaints about noise from my loft. Apparently my dog barks incessantly when I'm not home. The rub? I don't have a dog, or any other kind of pet. I went down to the office today and they said it was a mistake, but what it revealed was that the promised "audit" of lofts to see who had pets never took place. This audit was planned for a few months ago after my friend Tina and her dog were attacked by a pitbull in the hallway. I decided to save a copy of the notice about my barking dog to give to her so if she sues them. Which she should. I found it interesting that I would get a complaint notice (which was marked as going in my resident file) after I made complaints over the weekend. Of course, the new apartment I'm moving to has already run its checks, so if someone at the office was trying to throw a wrench in that...sorry, you missed. It makes me wonder if drug dealer (who never leaves the loft) is a friend of management. Hmmm...
Besides the residential drama, I went to Kodac Harrison's new gig at the Oakhurst Grille. He did a great set of songs and had me come up and read some poems. The lovely Irish singer Kathleen Donohoe also sang a moving rendition of Galway Bay that actually had me a little verklempt. I do love Irish music. It strikes some chord in me that is unexplainable, something that must be part of my ancestry. It made me want to go back to Ireland for a visit.
I also went down to my parents' over the weekend and helped my dad do some yardwork. Anyone who knows me well knows that I don't do yardwork. As a matter of fact, I hadn't done any yardwork since I was a kid, so it was weird wielding a big pair of clippers trying to trim the hedges around my parents' front walk. My dad is pretty weak because of his illness, so he raked a little and supervised. I also did my best Joan ("Bring me the axe!") Crawford and chopped down a tree. Yeah, yeah...I'm butch.
I wound up missing Java Monkey again, which is so unlike me. I've missed so many Sundays at JM because of being out of town or having other commitments. I should be back for the slam this Sunday. Watched The L Word (brilliant) and last night watched Kirstie Alley's new show Fat Actress. Hysterical. I was laughing so hard at how crazy she is. Sure it's a one joke show, but it's a pretty damn funny joke.
Comments
Funny how you assumed the guy was black. What does that say about you? Good to see stereotyping goes both ways.
Since I AM moving soon, if you need a loft that reeks of weed and walls that vibrate all night long, I've got a deal for you.
TJ